


Thrice Cursed

by Washedawaycloud



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Background Relationships, Boudicca Bandon, Canon-Typical Violence, Died and went to Thedas trope, Earth Girl in Thedas, Elvhen Courting, Elvhen Language, Eventual Relationships, F/F, F/M, Fair Folk, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Historical Girl in Thedas, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Implied Relationships, Irish Language, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Knowledge Kink, Language Barrier, Language Kink, Legends, Lesbians in Thedas, Obsessive Behavior, Orlesian Language, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Slow Build, Teacher-Student Relationship, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Style Courting, language exchange, liberal use of bullshitting my way through lore I don't have readily available to me in book form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 05:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10847178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Washedawaycloud/pseuds/Washedawaycloud
Summary: Boudicca Bandon is the last of her line, in Victorian Ireland. Her father has died, and she has been attacked. Isn't it just typical she wakes in a land that looks so like her home and is terrifying in it's differences? Has she fallen into the sidhe? How can she hope to survive this world full of magic with only her wits, her bow, and a rapier to keep herself safe. How can she hope to thwart the machinations of Nobles around her when the family ofthat disgusting manattempts to claim her as their own? What exactly is an Earth Countess of 18 supposed to do in a world that has entirely different rules than Victorian Ireland and England do? How exactly is she supposed to doanythingwhen she understands no one and they don't understand her!Herah Adaar is very much alone in this place. She flirts but it goes ignored, or perhaps unseen. She speaks and is listened to but called an Ox-woman behind her back, or Vashoth as if it is a death sentence. This little dark-haired human might just be the person she needs around to keep her from forgetting she's a person too, and not just a 'god touched' Herald.**Very Slow updates





	Thrice Cursed

Boudicca Bandon, _Lady_ Boudicca Bandon was not having a good day. In fact, it is an awful day. It is a no good, very bad, absolutely fucking terrible day. Her father died. Heart attack they said. The 2nd Earl of Bandon, gone. And Boudicca the only issue to the family.

There are so many fake smiles, platitudes, empty words about a man none of them really knew. James Bandon, her darling father, is gone. Her title – it dies with her. And it is only be a fluke she retains a title at all, unmarried as she is.  A gift, from the Queen herself if the Ambassador was to be believed. Something about women being able to do great things in the stead of men. But it came with a price.

Her title could only remain hers if she married within the next year. Upon her marriage, her husband must renounce _his_ family name and take hers else the title become extinct upon her death. So, the title is not hers – not truly for all that she has been called Countess several times. It makes her headache and her teeth grind. There is no way to keep her title herself. A title that is not hers and yet is. She wonders how many English nobles will come flocking to the estate to court her ‘proper’.

It’s a wonder there are _any_ Irish nobility left at all. She stalks outside, anything to get away from the stifling nature of this wake. This should be a party – a remembrance of the good times, the ridiculous times. It should be restricted to family who knew him, friends who loved him. Her fingers fumble as she pulls a tin of sweet grass from her dress pocket. A dress far too fine for such an occasion. She should be wearing something cheap, something she can burn as is proper after this is all over and done with. Not something expensive she has to keep because she unlike most ladies of her ilk, who have house keepers and need not keep the houses’ books - actually learned the value of money.

Her fingers find a slip of paper, deftly pinching a bit of the grass and rolling the cigarette up. A trick she’d learned from lower class English women when she’d visited court on the way to Danish lands with her father. She walks from the patio, far from any who will miss her, and nicks a bit of a twig from a dying bush to light in a sconce, in no time, her cigarette is lit. Black usually doesn’t wash her out, but today it is.  Mahogany hair, brown eyes rimmed in kohl, black dress, her best shoes56, black jewelry. She’s a rain cloud waiting to burst.  A deep breath when the thing is lit, and a sound has her turning. In the dark of the estate’s porch this far out, sconces few and far between, she can’t see anything. The flame dies and she turns back to her cigarette. The first draw calms her, soothes her. The anger over the amount of people, their lack of sincerity drains away as she holds the smoke in her lungs.

Exhaling, Boudicca hears another noise, and turns again, eyes narrowed. The blow comes from her left, not her right, and the last thing Boudicca sees of Earth, is the stone of her patio coming up to meet her.

 

Waking comes slowly to the young Countess. She feels sand underneath her, hears the crash of waves and it makes her nose wrinkle. The estate was miles inland. While the Island wasn’t large, it certainly isn’t that smile either. She rolls, a low groan sounding as she pushes herself to sit up on her knees. Her eyes blink slowly, hands coming up, dusting off on her dress before brushing at her face. Sand – everywhere. This would take days to get out of her hair. It wasn’t going to be comfortable either.

Sighing, she lets her hands fall into her lap and she takes in her surroundings. It’s cold, that is the first thing that swims into her awareness, damp as well, the crash of clouds coincides with the crash of waves not two meters away from her, and rain rather than mist drenches her. The sea is violent here, and has her standing on her feet shakily, heels digging into the soft ground, before she turns and totters toward ground of a more solid nature. What she finds behind her makes her mouth drop open.

These. Those are the basalt columns of the Giant’s Causeway! Her eyes dart over the slick rocks, unmistakable in their appearance. Everyone knew the Giant’s Causeway. Babes in arms knew the story of how the Causeway came to be, and its purpose. To see it in person – it’s like a dream.

She moves forward, stones and sand making the short walk rather a pain, before she places a hand against one of the pillars. Her peace is cut short by someone shouting. Her head swivels and she scuttles back, almost falling, to see men in armor, armor she’s seen before or some like it, hanging in the old wings of the castle. The uninhabited parts of Castle Bernard. She hadn’t caught the words, the ocean crashing, at the same time. He doesn’t look to be threatening her, but he’s also an unknown.

Lady, Boudicca may be, but her father had declared her too precious to go without such skills. Guards are well and good. But guards can defile daughters and turn on lords. No man would ever take Boudicca without a fight for his life. She knows her way around armor, bows, crossbows and rapier.

Yet all the knowledge in the world cannot brace the girl for what happens next – events that will forever be ingrained in Boudicca’s memory. The man takes a step forward, brows drawn together in concern, and he stops, eyes blowing wide, before blood spouts from his mouth, and leaks onto the front of his armor. It’s a scene from a horror story, or perhaps even the bible. A demon come to drag its prey to hell.

Her heart stops in her chest, eyes saucers at the sight before her. That – that thing, is grey, skin mottled, practically falling from its bones. The eyes are blood shot, but the blood isn’t right, it’s black and the eyes are wild. Lips are barely lips, teeth are barely what pass as human teeth. It screams and she screams with it. The head is tossed aside, adrenaline surges through the noblewoman, and dogs from seemingly nowhere, attack the grey thing. Another dressed as the dead man is not far behind, but Boudicca doesn’t know their fate, she turns, and she runs. Her delicate shoes fly off, and she runs as hard as she can down the beach.  She doesn’t stop, even as her lungs begin to burn.

All she can see is the surreal moment when the man’s head came off in talon bone spike hands. It was. It was worse than any tale she’d ever been told, and for a girl of her station, she is well traveled, and quite educated. Her legs are beginning to cramp, and she can’t quite get her breath like she normally would be able to, but she doesn’t care. That thing won’t get her. She’ll run until she dies first.

She careens around a corner, and almost slaps into another of the grey, dead, or near dead, demons. Her lungs find the air she needs, and she screams for all she’s worth before attempting to dart around it. She makes it, just barely, the shock of the noise perhaps dazing it. But moments later, her dress is caught. She screams, she cries, she pulls her skirt, pulls and pulls as she tries to keep running.

“I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!” Her words are frantic, and she _yanks_ the fabric, the dress tears to her thighs and she bolts again. Not here. Not after her father had passed. She certainly won’t become victim to whatever the hell these things are – she is stronger than this! Her eyes sting with tears, and she runs. She runs until her lungs protest, and she half collapses. Her eyes scour the area, and check over her shoulder. She is running again moments later, because that _thing_ is following her.

As her vision starts to gain spots, the disheveled, terrified noblewoman spots people. A camp! Her mind doesn’t stop to question why there is a camp in the Giant’s Causeway, she just runs. She gathers the last of her reserves and sprints.

Whatever Varric had thought might happen today, a noble woman careening into camp, collapsing half in the fire, her hands becoming white as she grabs at the lapels of his jacket, her words – wrong, but the tone clear – is not even close. He tries to steady her, when cries of alarm from the scouts reach the camp. Darkspawn.

If anything, the girl become paler, her freckles suddenly visible, fear making her pupils pinpricks. She struggles to her feet, an amazing thing considering how her chest heaves. The brunette girl is scrambling for cover, and suddenly it’s clear. She’s escaped darkspawn. Bianca barely makes a creak of sound as she comes over his shoulder, and he barks for Adaar and the others.

“We’ve got darkspawn! Get out here, Chuckles, Tiny, Bells!” The three barrel from their tents, and the noble girl, she twists a touch. Just a little, gets a look a tiny and collapses to the ground. Her words are hoarse, awed, a little scared, but she doesn’t move, scream or run. He’ll hand it to her, she probably wants to, but she can’t, knows it, and is giving herself over to their good will. Or something. That’s a good line though, he’ll have to use it.

“Who’s this?” Herah blinks at the human looking at Bull like he’s something from a story. Her staff comes off her back as she asks, moving to stand with Varric. The darkspawn is huge. An alpha, which is a touch strange, they were usually surrounded by underlings.

“No idea, Bells. But that one escaped it. She was running like demons were going to drag her to the void.” Varric spares the girl a glance, and notes her lips turning blue. “Chuckles, she looks like she might need you.”

With that, the story teller focuses on the Hurlock. Big bastards, tough to take down. He fires Bianca repeatedly, loading bolt after bolt while Hera hurls spirit energy, and Tiny takes the thing head on. He can feel a brush of magic, hears the girl suck in a deep breath, and then Chuckles is beside him, slinging ice with a cool grace.

Boudicca doesn’t know what she’s fallen into. But she is grateful when her lungs release, the man with the strange ears and deep blue eyes waving his hand at her. He – a. Oh bless her. The fair folk are real, she’s beyond help now. But, there are more important things at hand. She spies a bow – and every archery lesson she’d ever had slams into her. She had rarely used the skills taught to her, but now -. She scrambles for it, grabs, finds some arrows in the box near it, and stumbles to stand beside the man she’d first encountered. Bloody hell, another one of them?!

He’s short, strawberry blonde, and got a crossbow. He’d been as surprised to see her as she was him. But he’d not sent her away, or hurt her. He just called for people, and they came. They helped her. She’d help them too. The bow draw is impressive, but there isn’t time to find a smaller one, so Boudicca persists, knowing later she will pay for the strain she’s putting on her body. She lines her shot, and lets the arrow fly, hissing softly when the bowstring slaps against her forearm. It stings terribly even through the sleeves of her dress There’s nothing for it, she’s got no guards. Not that it matters, her shot lands, and she grins widely, wildly, nocking another, and taking aim. Again, and again, and again, until the beast goes down.

Then and only then, does she drop to the ground, shaking, breathless, feeling as if she might vomit. She’s freezing, confused, and at a loss as to why she’d just – grabbed a bow and fired it until the monster was dead. She’d killed something, not a fox or a hare, but something that had meant to kill _her_. It makes her face paler, if it’s possible, and she stares down at the rocks and sand.

The tall one, the one with horns – god in heaven, _horns_ approaches her, crouches down in front of her. She weaves as she looks up at him. He intones something, a question? It’s no language she’s been taught, but he must be asking her a question, wanting her bow?

She offers it to him listlessly. “Boudicca, Lady Boudicca of Bandon, Th-thank you.”  Lady Bandon doesn’t even flinch when those big hands take the bow and the last of the arrows she’d pilfered from her silently. Her hands fall to her lap and she keeps watching him. He terrifies her, but he isn’t making a move to grab her. Little by little, the brunette Irish woman relaxes, and her adrenaline crashes. She weaves, tries to stay up right, and crashes to the ground unconscious.

“What language was that? The accent was Marcher for certain, not Starkhaven, and certainly not Kirkwall or Markham.” Hera moves to check the girl over, the spirit healer looking for injuries. Surprisingly, their little noble is pristine. Her lungs are laboring harder than they ought to, but they’re healthy, strong even. With careful hands, she turns the woman over, picks her up to put her in a tent.

“No idea, Boss. Never heard an accent like that outside the Dalish. But, she’s human, through and through. Noble too, the quality of that fabric is too fine for her not to be, and her jewelry, it’s all sapphire if I have to go off a glance. But damn, she wields a bow like a seasoned hunter.”

“She’s a rather fascinating version of a Noblewoman. I wasn’t aware any allowed their daughters to learn to handle a weapon lest they’re to become templars.” Solas chimes in, hands behind his back as he observes Hera with the woman whose head lolls a touch. The accent has thrown him.  It is indeed like that of most Dalish he’s met. A human shouldn’t have such an accent. It makes little sense. She has no scars, she’s well fed, the swell of her hips and bust is enough to show them that, so she cannot be a stray taken in by a remarkably open and accepting Dalish clan.

“She’s useful, whoever she is. Could rival Sera for her marksmanship. We’ll bring her back to Haven, see if her family is looking for her, figure out what language that was, which could tell us _where_ she’s from.” The Herald speaks with kindness, laying the woman on a bedroll in the middle of the tent. She and the Iron Bull would be on either side. If the woman woke, one of them would wake with her.

 

Boudicca is sitting in front of her Father’s coffin. The wake. Sweet merciful Lord, she was at the Giant’s Causeway while her father is laying in his coffin. She should be taking care of him. Staying with him. Telling stories if no one else would fucking well do it. One of her hands, finger nails manicured, reaches out, settles on his chest.  He looks so stately, and as if he’s only sleeping. The brow that is usually wrinkled be it from frustration or amusement, is smooth. His mouth isn’t smiling, nor frowning. His eyes are closed, and Boudicca is glad of it.

To see him without laughter in them. She’s not sure how she’d handle it. But, she misses those vibrant hazel eyes of his. Eyes she’s known her whole life, that had kept her steady when she was presented to the Danish court, the Dutch court, even the bloody English court. He’s too serene to be her father. She sighs as hot lump forms in her throat. “ _Is fada liom uaim tú, athair,_ ” she whispers it, leaning town to press her lips to his forehead.

It isn’t fair, a wild thought she’s had every day since he’d told her he had the wasting, that there was time yet they could be together, travel together. They had been cheated. Lied to. Eighteen years, with thirteen filled with memories, isn’t enough. It would never be enough. Tears roll down her cheeks, and she kneels at the kneeler, her rosary in hand, whispering prayers for her father to see the gates of Heaven.

She startles when a hand lays upon her shoulder. Whipping around as she stands, she comes face to chin with the man, the fae, from earlier. Earlier at the – at the Giant’s Causeway. Her eye blink, mind rationalizing it away as one does when dreaming.

“May I ask, who that man is?” Blue eyes that remind her of a storm filled sky shift to her father, and hers follow. The tears well and she takes a steadying breath.

“My father.”

He’d hoped, stepping into the stranger’s dream, he could find useful information. He had not thought to find her tending the dead. It was a strange scene. Clearly, they are in a Chantry of some sort, but far more ornate than any Solas has seen in all his travels of Thedas. The windows have colored glass, unfamiliar figures depicted in them. There are sconces, _golden_ ornaments on an altar, pews, the first familiar thing he has laid eyes on, with velvet covered benches at their bases. He’s seen no such piece of furniture in any of the Chantries he has been inside.

To see the young woman from the afternoon, to hear her voice flow over gentle words in a lilting manner accompanied by tears is – strange. He’s seen many dreams where people mourn the dead. Yet this is done with such clarity and focus. Most focus on the regrets, one trying to speak with their loved one, just one last time. The shem’len, she prays instead. There is nothing else she could be doing, as she kneels upon the velvet covered bench, a string of beads folded between her hands. Strange practices.

This looks closer to the way elders were prepared for Uthenera than what the Andrastians practice. Curiosity eventually gets the better of him, and Solas lays a hand upon her shoulder. He takes control of things, pressing his advantage, warping her dream state to reflect what he will know in terms of speech. A delicate, difficult thing, but his effort is not wasted.

Her answer has him frowning. Her father, dead. She cannot be very old, then. And she is indeed a noble. To be placed somewhere such as this – it spoke of wealth. Though, she could be a merchant’s daughter. There was always that possibility as well. It doesn’t give him any answers.

“I am sorry for your loss. I hope he will find peace in the beyond.” Empty and yet sincere words. Solas didn’t know this shem’len nor did he really care to. She had been useful, yes, but she had also lead a Hurlock to their camp. He was looking for information to help find her family. Find her family, send her off, return to the task at hand. Nothing could distract the Herald, least of all a human woman.

“I doubt it.” Her smart reply makes him rear back from her, eyes narrow on her face. Her eyes are hard, mouth set in a line. “You didn’t know him at all. To be sorry is to miss him. You won’t, so there is no need to make false claims. I thank you for it none the less.”

Her fingers tangle, and her hands settle in front of her, weight shifting as her posture shifts unconsciously. Another strange thing. Why would she stand so? It’s rather formal, her back is completely straight, shoulders back, head held high, there’s nothing relaxed about her.  Not a single thing. This is something reserved for nobility meeting others or betters of their station, not hedgemages, not elves.

“As you say.” He chooses his words carefully now, the sharpness in her fascinating. This is no simpering noble woman.  “I am afraid I didn’t catch your name, Miss.”

“Lady-“she pauses and sighs, “no, I am sorry, as of today, Countess Boudicca of Bandon.” She speaks it as if he shouldn’t be surprised, and Solas adapts to her. If only to keep her thinking this is a dream. He bows to her, a courtly bow, one that would have quite pleased Mythal or Elgar’nan. His mind whirls, Countess. What rank was that? Equal to an Arlessa? Perhaps a Teryna? He’s never heard of a Countess before.

“A pleasure, considering the circumstance under which we meet.” He keeps his voice honeyed and even, even as she looks at him with exasperation as he comes up from the bow. “I did not think to meet a Lady of such standing.”

“In name alone now, I am afraid, and quite strange in comparison to others of my ilk, my Lord.” Her emphasis on Lord is pointed, and Solas’ mouth in astonishment, a touch of amusement in him as well. Quite sharp indeed. She misses little, though she’s yet to make comment on his ears or race but calls him Lord? She is strange indeed.

“Solas, I do apologize Lady Bandon. I should have given my name earlier.”

“Old dogs can be quite resistant to new tricks.” Her quip has him smirking, laugher rumbling in his chest. How right she is, for all her jesting.

“Am I so old, my lady?”

“With a bow like that? I dare say you are, my Lord. No one bows like that unless they’re meeting the King of bloody England.” She snorts, and Solas finds an answer he’d been looking for. England. She’s of a land called England then.

“Perhaps the English you know are simply sloppy?”

“I wouldn’t disagree.” Her eyes shift to her father and she becomes sad once more. “He always made jokes about the English. Easy targets he called them. I never learned anything about the bastards to disagree.”

So not from England then. The mage represses a sigh. For every bit of information, he finds, she gives a contradiction or something else to make hm doubt. He decides to move with a more direct line of questioning. “May I ask, my lady, when he is to be laid to rest? Perhaps I may help you with arrangements.”

She’s got lovely brown eyes, and they roll, lip curling in distaste. “I’m no wilting flower, my Lord. I am an educated woman, I need no help with funeral arrangements, no Lady worth her salt would if she excelled in her finishing schooling.”

Too late Boudicca realizes how sharp she’s been to the Fae who’d come to visit her. Who had – he’d cast magic upon her, had he not? Her mind strains, and Solas, ever observant, forces her dream to stay as it is, soothing her mind as only a somniari can.  He watches with fascination as the young woman pales a touch, her complexion now throwing her freckles into view. “I apologize, my Lord. Such rudeness is – unacceptable. Forgive me.” Her head dips and once again, Solas is left confused.

Why in the world was this noble woman, _human_ noble woman begging forgiveness for being sharp with him. Part of him that is still the cock-sure man he’d been in his youth, basks in the power she’s giving him. The more cautious part, looks upon her warily.

“I’m not sure why you ask forgiveness. It isn’t common for any to ask that of my kind.”

Her head shoots up, dark hair shifting in its pins. She looks aghast and then mildly terrified. “W-What? Why wouldn’t they? You’re – But you.” She stumbles over her words. It makes her seem much younger than she had only moments prior. Somehow Solas finds this – enjoyable.

He watches her as she studies him, rich brown eyes tracing over his features. The girl steps close to him, reaches up as if to touch his face, pausing a hairs breath away. He has no idea what she is thinking, why she is hesitant, what has her treating him with such deference, and thus, he watches her. He has no idea that his stare is intense, the blue of his eyes vivid and terribly striking.

Her hand settles on his jaw, and he watches as her breath stills. As her fingers trace along his cheekbones, he takes a moment to look at her. She is – as he’d observed before, well fed. Certainly not overfed, but healthy, healthier than some humans he’s seen and interacted with. Her dress is – strange. He’s never seen one like it. The fabric is quality, starting at her chin, covering her to her wrists and the skirts sweep the floor. He can tell her waist has been tied in, and that her hips might be a touch exaggerated by the skirt – if this dress was a representation of the one that had been torn today. Her skin is not milk pale, she is not warm and not cold in her tone, pleasantly olive, those eyes spaced just a touch too far apart, and yet suiting her. Her nose is delicate, very much a button shape, her mouth is a bit thin, her cheekbones proportionate, her brow neither heavy nor lacking. Her hair is perhaps her crowning glory.

Auburn, or more accurately mahogany, a red shine to brown locks. It is kept in a sever style, upon which sits a terrible headdress with an equally terrible veil attached, hanging down her back. Is this what her people wear? Or is it because her father is dead? Everything she wears is black after all. He is about to ask when her fingers – feather light in touch – trace his ear. It’s unexpected, but even dreaming a person can feel. For Solas, sensation here is far more intense than it is in the waking world, and a gasp slips from his lips.

His hand snaps and grabs at hers, fingers like iron around her wrist. Those eyes widen and she pales. Fear is evident, he must throw an impromptu barrier over her dream to keep spirits from noticing her. She reeks of fear, and he wouldn’t have her fear him, not yet. Not when she is so fascinating.

“I’m so sorry! I – I overstepped. I shouldn’t have.” She babbles and stammers, but eventually calms. “You’re of the  _aos si_ , fair folk, people of the hill. Magical, everlasting, supposedly living amongst us lowly humans without us ever seeing.”

Her lilt has him watching her face, the way her mouth shapes words. He enjoys the accent from her lips far more than he ever has from the lips of a Dalish. A curious little thing, this human, who stands so her eyes are level with his chin. Tall for a woman.

“I’m afraid I don’t know these _Aos si_. Nor can I claim them as my people.” He fights the shock of her claiming him everlasting, immortal. How right this little whisper of a life is. He’s never been called _Aos si_ before, whatever language she speaks, that word isn’t translated by his will.

Her head shakes. “But you are, the fair folk, they’re called such because they are beautiful, because they carry magic –.”

“Do the people of your land not have magic?” He is alarmed, wondering what hell scape her land must be. No magic – how did they survive? What of their healing practices? How did they deal with demons or the undead, or blights?

“No. Well, some do, the druids do or did, I am not sure any live that are proper druids any longer though there will always be those who play at being such, Brigit and Cailleach along with the _Tuath de_ have magic as well, but they’re legends. Legends that birthed gods.”

Spirits, no magic in their blood. Elves were gods to her people? Revered – Solas isn’t sure if he should be elated or horrified. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding the girl’s wrist, not does he realize dawn is fast approaching. He questions her the rest of the night, unconsciously keeping her anchored to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again. I was happily working on my other fics and Boudicca pops into my head. Demands attention and here we are. Reviews are always loved and welcome. I have no beta. I am a betaless writer. It is my downfall. 
> 
> The parallels between Solas and the legends of Aos Si are abundant. Ageless, existing in both the human world and a world largely regarded as unreal, taking the form of an animal, enamored with sweets, beautiful... Yeah. Boudicca is going to be a tough one to convince that Solas isn't one of the ancient race of supernatural beings she learned about as myths. 
> 
> Enjoy! Or don't, that's cool too. 
> 
> Translations:  
> Is fada liom uaim tú athair : I miss you father  
> aos si - faerie/elf  
> Tauth de - tribe of gods
> 
> FYSA: This is going to be HELLA slow on the updates. I have too many things going on at once, but if I didn't write this down and get it out, it'd fuck up other things.


End file.
